


Splitting the Atom

by Rhanon_Brodie (Glass_Jacket)



Category: Arctic Monkeys, British Singers RPF, Indie Music RPF
Genre: M/M, Slash, two blokes having a wank and being introspective about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 08:04:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6415594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glass_Jacket/pseuds/Rhanon_Brodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...yes he can do the wildest tricks. There is one called 'splitting the atom', which is a really hard trick."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Splitting the Atom

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimers apply. All recognizable elements herein are property of their respective owners. The remaining content is mine. I'm having a had time getting Mattlex out of my head for a few reasons, one of which is the very lovely Mattlex fan art by @esparafuso over on tumblr. If you haven't seen it, go over and say hello and how much you love it.
> 
> Takes place early SIAS, before the quiff and Arielle and Breana, but after Alexa. I speculate on the events that may have transpired during Alex and Alexa's break up, but i don't know the details, and furthermore, I don't WANT to know them. This is a work of fiction, and nothing more.
> 
> Also this is the second time I've posted this; don't do edits on your phone at 11 pm without your glasses because you may end up deleting the entire work.

There’s a rare moment when Alex and Matt are both single. They don’t think much of it at the time; relationships, or lack thereof, often listen to second fiddle when there’s times like these - on the road for days, weeks, months at a time, ritual habitual in the same set list, the same lights, same antics. The beer is warm and their backs ache, but they wouldn’t give up the thrill of the stage for any sense of normalcy. That might come later, and it might come easier for the others, but for Alex especially, the mantle of vagabond hangs rather easily on his shoulders, and he takes it up with him when he leaves every hotel room and heartbreak.

She’d done a number on him, that much was clear, though the bruises weren’t the kind to blacken eyes, but rather hearts and moods. Matt had liked her well enough, but any companionship Alex has is always a bit troublesome - he sometimes feels like he’s the only one who can understand the broodish tendencies, the extroverted introvert, the young boy-poet who reluctantly took up the spot of lead singer, and whom Matt will back up, always, vocally or otherwise.

He’s protective of Alex, and of the boy’s emotions, and though he’s younger, Matt has always thought of himself as the older brother - they all do, really, though perhaps Alex is the one with his feet the most firmly planted in this helium daze of upright stardom. He sleeps late and watches Danger Mouse, he forgets his shaving kit every now and again, and every morning they board the bus and Alex slides into place behind the table, his notebook in hand, a cup of coffee, cigarettes, wearing a t shirt worn through at the neck that he’ll never get rid of.

Matt reads. A lot. There’s endless hours rolling down the highway; while Jamie and Nick busy themselves with World Cup Soccer on the PS2, or sleep, or wander around looking for something to nibble, Matt reads. Sometimes it’s books. Most times it’s Alex. He’s been working on this new volume since it was released, unabridged in paperback so that it slips easily into Matt’s back pocket when he’s called to order. He takes a seat around the end of the table, the whole thing swaying with the highway, and Alex barely looks up from where he’s scratching away at a page, no doubt penning their next album when this one has barely seen the light of day. Regardless of the rapid-fire of thoughts appearing in slanted, black letters, Matt is excited to a brilliant degree, always in awe of Alex’s ability to say what’s on his mind without giving anything away. And Matt never pries, never tries to, at least, but sometimes he finds that he’s staring, be it at the page or at the boy, and Alex barely flinches, merely lets a smile curve his lips, and then subtly moves his hand flat, covering words before he leans back with a sigh and closes his notebook.

But Matt has caught a glimpse, _secrets I have held in my heart / are harder to hide than I thought_ , and he darts his gaze to a worn copy of a John Cooper Clarke anthology before looking up to Alex. It’s on the tip of his tongue to point out the transparency of the words Alex has written, but perhaps with a watered down intonation. Then he sees the the melancholic reservation in the smaller man’s grin, watches the notebook get tucked under a bony elbow, a sign that says to Matt, _I’m done with this now, let’s talk about something else_.

So they talk like they always have, like they always can, and they talk about everything until they’ve come full circle and Alex glances out the window and lets out a small breath of air that puffs over his bottom lip. “Looks like rain,” he drawls, directing his gaze back to Matt with a quirk of that dubious left eyebrow.

Matt chuckles and drums his fingers over the table, notes the road sign indicating the distance to the ferry terminal, and then stands. “Wanna stretch your legs?”

Alex nods, already twisting out of his spot and adjusting his shirt.

Matt nods, too, and moves to the front of the bus to discuss a quick rest stop with the driver before they reach the docks and are loaded on board for a stretch across the channel. He is painfully aware of Alex’s need to wander and ponder, to shuffle his feet over blacktop and take a thoughtful cigarette or three outside the confines of their bus - the twitching of those narrow shoulders is evident.

Soon enough, the engines gear down and the bus merges from the main highway to a roundabout, circling towards an information center, and there’s a change in pressure, and in the way Alex’s face falls. He’s already gone, Matt marvels, seeing the dreamy eyes drift towards the steely blue sky and the wind reefing violently on the trees that line the lane. 

+

Alex folds himself into an impressive tangle of limbs and joints and ducks down behind the lee of a rather large stone outside the Birkenhead terminal. The sun has warmed this side, and the heat penetrates through the softly worn cotton of Matt’s jumper, which the drummer offered up immediately upon seeing Alex’s first shiver. Alex won’t readily admit that he wasn’t actually cold, just pleasantly sprung by the damp, tepid air. Instead he’d taken Matt up on his offer, though he knows Matt hates the smell of cigarette smoke. There’s something endearing about that, Alex decides as a cigarette dangles from the fingers of one hand, and the other pokes fingertips through the worn seam on the cuff of the gray sweatshirt. Having forgone shoes, he flexes his bare toes in cool, young grass and glances up at the gloom that looms overhead.

He’s tried very hard to not let this affect him - he swallows the ache and puts on a brave face. Really, it’s only at the darkest moments of night when he feels lost, when he feels perhaps he’d been rash, too quick to cut ties and ship his belongings in containers for his mum and da to pick up and store in his childhood home. Those thoughts, of course, lead back to the point where it all unraveled, where suddenly the shining jewel of his young emotions tarnished, and he realizes how naive he had been. Only six months ago he’d been contemplating marriage; now he’s on tour in Europe and she’s in New York and he’s not quite sure that’s enough distance between them. It’s a relief in all honest - he doesn’t think he’s really the marrying type, despite those that say, “You may change your mind later.” Alex Turner doesn’t change his mind, doesn’t second guess. He makes a decision and sees it through, if only to prove the crowd wrong, and to be right in the bitter end.

He’s been writing more lately, the compulsion so thick that he can sink his teeth into it. It’s not the manic three am sessions like those in the desert, but rather a cleansing of his heart. He’s never been so straightforward, so open; he’d rather die than wrap his sentiment round his arm for some new attraction to tug on. But these words are different. The mood is precise, and full of longing, and he’s not quite sure he’s ready for it yet, even though the notebooks would tell a different tale.

A chortle of laughter brings Alex’s head up and he sees Matt with his head thrown back, hand on his midsection as he laughs at something Nick has said. It makes Alex smile, too, though he doesn’t know the joke, and really, he doesn’t care too. All that matters is that they’re smiling; more importantly that Matt is smiling, because that thousand-watt curve is exactly that: the sun, and it’s radioactive, getting under Alex’s skin and making his cells realign. God in heaven, he is the luckiest bastard alive to be with his best friend in a time like this. He finishes his cigarette as Matt turns and waves him over, and Alex slowly unfurls like a slinky being stretched, and he sort of wobbles his way over to where Jamie has joined the other two.

For a while they merely go off about motorcycles, where they’re gonna eat once they get to Dublin, a few suggestions for the set list, the possibility of taking in a movie - Alex is more inclined to ‘Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy”, but he feels he’ll get outvoted and end up smoking a joint and going to see The Hangover II - at least he won’t have to think about it. Then, the four of them are boarding the bus, and the bus is crawling onto the deck and into the belly of the ferry. Alex sighs, and thinks of Ireland, which turns his thoughts to green, until finally he is called adrift by a tiger-eyed girl with claws to match.

+

“Eh, Matt.”

“Mmm?” He’s groggy, and he blinks his eyes open in the dimmed bunks of the bus. Down in the ship’s hold, where the other vehicles are, it’s dark, and so he determines it’s Cookie waking him up from the sound of his nasal voice more than anything.

“M’headed up. Wanna join me? Finkin’ bout the arcade. Summat to eat.”

It’s tempting, and Matt smiles at Jamie’s ingrained fear of the ferry sinking, and him drowning down here on the bus as it goes. But Matt’s knackered; one show the previous night, a long trip on the bus to Birkenhead, and now eight hours on a ferry just make him long for sleep.

“Nah, mate. Maybe Al?”

Jamie snorts and thumps the bunk across the aisle. “Already out. I’m off then. Takin’ Mal wiv me for a spell. Sweet dreams, Helders.”

Jamie grins, or at least Matt figures he does - the humor is evident in the blond’s voice. The guitarist moves away, and there’s some murmured talking, a bit of laughter, and then the gentle thud of the bus door closing. Matt sighs, and drifts back to sleep.

+

The second time he’s roused from sleep is when there’s a shifting on his bunk, the blanket moving about, and a bit of swaying. It’s even darker now, but a sliver of light catches the pale skin of Alex’s throat as he settles beside Matt. It’s habit by now, Alex crawling into bed with him. They’ve been having sleepovers since they were eight, sharing a bed because the floor in Alex’s room wasn’t fit for his friend, he insisted. When they have a luxury of a hotel room, even if it’s a double, Alex will eventually find his way into bed beside Matt. He tends to sleep a little easier then, though Matt’s convinced Alex could probably sleep just about anywhere if he were tired enough. Lately, he’s been having a rough go, and fair enough - his emotions are shot, his mental state is reverberating, and Matt has no doubt that Alex can’t turn his brain off for a moment’s peace.

Alex’s breathing turns soft, and rhythmic, and Matt finds that he falls into sync with his own breathing. He has to admit that he sleeps a little better with Alex at his side, and he drifts as the bus gently sways, and the sound of the ferry engines hums beneath them.

+

There’s a familiar ache and pull in Matt’s groin when he wakes for the third time, and he comes to notice that Alex has slotted himself right over his right side - knee drawn up and snugged against Matt’s pelvis, his head pillowed on Matt’s shoulder, his fingers curled into the soft, blue fabric of his worn Alaska T shirt. 

But the breathing is different.

In fact, it sounds as though Alex is struggling to not move, or make a sound.

Matt stirs and feels Alex’s knee bump into his erection, which he wasn’t aware of until that moment.

It’s not the first time this has happened, but at that precise moment, it feels like the air has been sucked out of the little curtained off bunk, and Matt’s eyes widen desperately to search for Alex’s gaze. Alex’s fingers have tightened their hold, and there’s a wet sound of tongue behind teeth, as if Alex is about to speak.

Matt beats him to it. “Sorry,” he mutters dumbly. He’s never apologized before, and he doesn’t know why he’s doing it now. These things _happen_. They’re males, after all, sleep-induced lust raging in their subconscious making terrible debuts and unscheduled appearances. Matt’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth as he shifts his hips and moves his hand, curling it about Alex’s in order to move it out of the way. He just wants to turn over and will this urge away, but it’s been a few days, and no amount of doing multiplication tables in his head is going to work this out.

“S’alright.” Alex’s reply is soft, and fond, and he won’t let Matt budge his hand. “Matthew?” He ventures, gazing up to where he know’s Matt’s gaze is. He can feel it in the dark, here on the bus, or out on stage. Alex tilts his own pelvis against the outside of Matt’s thigh to convey his own state of urgency, and he swears he hears a stutter in Matt’s breath.

“M’gonna,” Alex begins, throat dry, eyes squeezing shut. “M’gonna...take care o’me,” he intones deeply. “An’ you can take care o’you.” He lets out a hot huff and bites his lip at the electricity that licks up his spine. “I joost...don’t wanna...be by meself.”

Matt’s groan is choked, and he whimpers as Alex’s hand drifts down his belly and ghosts over his groin, full tilt beneath joggers, and then disappears. He wants Alex’s touch, he realizes as he sweats and shifts on the bunk. But there’s a rustle, and the sound of a belt clicking open, followed by that of the zipper crawling down. Alex sucks in a startled breath as he tugs at the waistband of his briefs, tears springing to his eyes as it scrapes along the underside of his shaft. It makes him dizzy, the state of his senses, and he realizes that Matt is frozen beside him.

“Matthew,” he gulps, his hand stilling, heart pounding madly. “Say summat?” He croaks.

Matt’s face his hot, and his body is shaking with a myriad of emotions. The one that he cannot escape, however, is how _right_ this all seems, how harmless and beautiful and petrifying. He ignores the warning signal in the back of his skull for the basic instinct crawling up his spine. _It’s tossing off_ , he tells himself, but deep down he realizes it's so much more. He hears his breath escape him and then his voice is answering Alex: “Yes.”

The sound Alex makes is one of relief, and rejoice, and he presses his forehead into Matt’s shoulder with a groan before he angles himself down the bed, finding a bit of space on the narrow bunk. His shirt goes up and off, dropped over the edge with his caution. Drunk on the turn of events, Matt’s lashes flutter as he shifts his hips and tugs his joggers off, his hand resting on the waistband of his boxers. _This is it_ , he thinks. _After this there’s nowt to hide_.

Alex clicks the light on, and the strip of LED running along the head of the bunk flickers to life. Matt is faced with Alex’s flushed cheekbones, and dark, glassy eyes glancing up and back at him as the lad sprawls on his back and arches his hips. The movement of his hand draws Matt’s gaze and he finds he can’t look away from Alex’s impressive length. For a small lad, he’s packing, a thought that drifts into Matt’s brain and sort of floats around until it begins to pulse as Alex slowly wraps his long fingers around the thickness and squeezes. The dark-eyed man lets out a slow, soft breath, and a groan, and Matt feels it throb in his dick, his balls, and the spot behind them. The first two fingers of his right hand meet the lash of his tongue and he’s reaching beneath his boxers, down behind his sac to softly caress the strip of sensitive skin.

They are quick to find a suitable rhythm, and it becomes an erotic study session of lines and shadows, bones, flesh, and manipulation. A small bottle of lube appears from under Matt’s pillow, the top flicked back and the slippery liquid poured copiously onto palms and the tips of their cocks. They’re breathing like they’ve just run a marathon, and they haven’t even got started, not really, too busy watching each other and waiting for the other’s next move to really get down to business. Alex’s bottom lip pulls between his teeth and his nostrils flare as Matt squeezes his own thick length rather roughly, his thumb and forefinger snugging round the base while the palm of his other hand rolls over the tip. Matt, for his part, blinks back sweat, or maybe tears, and he wonders how Alex can be so languid in even this aspect of his life: those long, graceful fingers slip up and down with barely any pressure, but enough to make Alex huff and sigh and whine as he arches, and licks his lips.

The smaller lad is a feast for Matt’s senses, and he’s torn between watching his cock disappear in his fist with every pass, and watching the way Alex moves and treats himself. It’s forcibly intimate, seeing his closest, most prized person in a state of arousal that Matt himself is experiencing at the same time. And Alex _has_ to be feeling it, this rush, this peeling of nerves and tension, the wrapping of anxious sensation over raw, jellied limbs and rushing blood. They flay each other with hands and eyes and sighs. Matt watches, standing outside of himself as he works, twisting and tugging, liquid delight oozing freely from every pore, from the tip of his impulse, mixing into the layer of sounds in the small space. 

His voice is fingernails making half-moons in the atmosphere when Alex’s left hand reaches out and swipes the warm pads of his fingers against the back of Matt’s wrist. Startled, Matt looks, and sees Alex staring up at him, neck arched, the gold of his chain glinting in the LED. Small, dark nipples jut, gooseflesh surrounds them on the pale chest, and Alex’s stomach caves and flexes as he pants, and slows his fist.

Matt, on the other hand, speeds up, and he’s staring at Alex’s lax left hand, the one that touched him, the one he wants to touch him again, anywhere really. But it’s a give and take thing, Matt knows this, knows that Alex is all about showing a little skin, and then playing coy. With a quick breath, Matt reaches out and presses the fingers of his left hand to Alex’s flank, and then flattens his palm there, feels the very human heart thumping under hot, damp flesh. Alex arches into the touch; his sudden moan is as lush and rolling as the green hills they are sailing to, and the hand on his cock speeds up a fraction. 

Breathless at Alex’s revelation - _I caused that_ , Matt realizes with zeal, _that sound, that moan, that note he’s never touched once_ \- Matt’s own eagerness pelts his nerves with hot spikes of pleasure. It’s been a while, but he’s doing his damndest to make this last, for Alex, and for him, for them both. The angle is awkward, Alex on his back, head close to Matt’s hip, Matt on his side trying to reach for any swath of Alex’s skin until his fingers scrabble and scrape over a nipple, and Alex’s whine comes sharp, and thin. Matt’s cock pulses in reply, and he gasps as his thighs tense, and his buttocks flex.

A plea comes, ragged and desperate, as Alex feels his mounting arousal suddenly twist and soar. He’s surprised he hasn’t bitten through his lip, or at least tasted blood, but his toes are curling, legs tense, back bowed as he bucks into his loosened fist, and watches with wide eyes as Matt moves with harsh intensity. They’re so different, Alex concludes, and yet their contrast is just testament to what he’s always known: they’re two sides of the same ha’penny, a lucky coin kept in the deepest pocket of the heart. 

The notion that this is so much more than the physical release builds in the back of Alex’s mind, blooming rosy gold. His tongue detects the current on the air between them, and his fingertips find the spark beneath his skin and shifts his hips closer to Matt, rolling with the other man’s touch, delighting in the feel of that broad-palmed hand holding him with a hesitant touch. Oh, Matt’s hesitance and the absence of it at the same time is euphoric, like the blast and blaze of the desert and all her secrets. His face is practically buried in Matt’s hip, and he inhales every fiber of the drummer’s being, smells the sweat and the skin, the fabric softener, and that distant sweetness of impending release. Alex watches as it drips down Matt’s fingers, and he groans and speeds his own hand until his fingers are slipping, too. 

Unabashed in this state, Matt’s open mouth curls in a grin as he watches Alex stare, and set his body to full whack. His hand still flits over Alex’s lean muscles and soft skin; when he pulls back, there’s a soft whine and Alex closes his eyes and whimpers. It’s a sound that Matt feels in the root of his dick, in the depths of his balls, and he angles his hips towards Alex like his cock is a winnowing stick, and Alex is the water he seeks. And, in a way he is; the cool depths of the boy, the stoicism, and the swirling currents beneath the surface, all call to Matt, to his need and his want. Before he knows it, those big, brown eyes are glancing up again, and Alex’s breath is stuttering over the slick, swollen head of Matt’s cock. Then, there’s the delicate curl of a clever tongue, darting out to taste, and test the integrity of the moment. 

“Mmmf!” It’s a startled sound, broken and grated, and Matt can’t believe what he’s seeing while the blood roars in his ears and his hand moves faster. His free hand has landed on Alex’s shoulder to steady himself against the sudden need to drive forward and find tight warmth. 

Alex shushes Matt, takes a breath, and licks again, pursing his lips and offering up his own prayer of, “Fookin’ ‘ell, Matthew.” When he pulls back with his own open-mouthed smile, he’s rewarded with the first splash of Matt’s release, and then another, and another, and Alex groans and licks his lips, and every drop he can get. His own fist tightens and quickens and then he’s coming, too, a glorious arc to make a mess on his contracting belly, shuddering and shivering as Matt’s fingers find Alex’s hair and brushes it back from his face. 

The aftershocks are firing through Matt’s body, and Alex is shivering as he fits the smaller lad more or less beneath him, throwing a leg over his hip, their relief colliding, taut bellies pressed together tightly, Matt’s hands holding Alex’s face reverently as they stare at one another. It’s another first, this passage of rite, and privilege. Neither can speak. There are no words, none that are suitable at least. Instead, Matt rests his forehead on Alex’s and breathes. Alex does, too, finding Matt’s rhythm like he always has, settling the wildness that threatens to consume. Fingertips flit over the tips of Matt’s ears, and Alex nuzzles his cheek and jaw, his sated sigh a siren’s song to Matt’s heart. Matt feels it, too, the calmness, the ease that comes with Alex. Tilting his head up, Alex’s lips glance off of Matt’s, a lowly murmured _thank you_ at the helm, which Matt cuts off with another short, firm kiss. There are no words, and gratitude is not something he seeks. He wants for nothing other than he and Alex always like this: halved with fission, fused together with passion. 


End file.
